


All The Kingdoms of The World

by Cafelatte100, Raphaela_Crowley



Series: The Starlight Eyes Collection [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bible, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Drama, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelatte100/pseuds/Cafelatte100, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Before Crowley changed his name, Satan assigned him a very special temptation: Crawley would have leave to offer up all the kingdoms of the world. But things don't go according to plan. Three times Crawley is asked what his name is, and three times he finds he cannot answer.
Series: The Starlight Eyes Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825057
Comments: 4
Kudos: 147
Collections: Beautiful and Stunning Good Omens Fics, Favorite GO Fics





	All The Kingdoms of The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyWallace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWallace/gifts).



> A/N: Giftfic from Cafelatte100 to Lady-Wallace. 
> 
> Based on the prompt by Cafelatte100, inspired by The Bible and Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

All The Kingdoms of The World

A _Good Omens_ Fanfiction

It was dark in the field – something took a nip at the demon Crawley from behind and then baa-ed rather self-importantly. The demon turned and fixed his glowing yellow eyes on the sheep, which bleated and took off in the opposite direction.

He was meant to be getting his next assignment here. Someone was supposed to meet him – probably Hastur or Ligur – but he was made uneasy by the fact that, whoever they were, they were _late_.

Usually, that was _his_ role; they typically stood around lurking until he arrived. He'd gotten told off for this, of course, but he accomplished his assignments so well no proper punishment for his tardiness had ever been enacted.

A figure, more substantial than a shadow and also more dangerous, came into focus and strode with an easy rhythm towards Crawley.

"Master." He swallowed, bending forward in a bow.

A cold chill ran down his spine as he straightened it. He hadn't anticipated the Devil himself turning up in the squelchy field. There was no hope for any sheep that tried to take a bite out of _him_. No warning stare for them, no hard glower telling them to take off while they still could. They'd be fried mutton in an instant.

"Hello, Crawley – it's been a long time."

"Er, yes, it has." He managed another bow, slightly more clumsy thanks to his nerves momentarily getting the better of him.

"I've got a job for you."

 _Come on, Satan, don't say_ temptation _, not_ again _. Something else this time – bloody_ anything _else..._ If he thought he'd get away with it, Crawley would have crossed his fingers.

The devil smiled. "...it's a temptation."

 _Oh, bugger._ Crawley forced himself to smile back. "D'you know, master, I've been thinking...eh...temptations aren't really _my scene_ any longer, you know? Been there, done that. Apple tree, big black serpent..." He motioned up at his amber eyes as the pupils widened pointedly. "I think I've peaked."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah," he chuckled. "It's time I tried something different – starting a war, or fomenting discord amongst people. That kind of thing. Less persuasion, more action. Give the temptation to Hastur – he's convincing."

"I'm afraid, Crawley, you're the only one right for this particular job."

" _Why me_?"

"Because, of all the demons at my disposal, you're the only one who has an imagination – and, believe me, darling, you're going to need it for this. I need you to think the way our enemy thinks – get inside their head. This is the big one, Crawley. Compared to the glory _this_ will bring our side, Eden was nothing."

"Right, but Hastur has–" He stopped. Of course Hastur didn't have an imagination. Hastur couldn't imagine his way out of a sack of duck feathers. Satan knew this. He wasn't stupid. You didn't lead a rebellion and split the population of Heaven nearly half-and-half because you were _stupid_. At least, not in the meaning of the word which implied lack of actual intelligence.

"Remarkable, isn't it, that your imagination didn't burn away in the Fall." Satan's expression, as he leaned forward so that Crawley could just make it out, turned almost pensive. "Of course, in the olden days it was always _you_ – you were the one angel who could get into the head, deep into the mind, of any other angel, regardless of rank. Almost a _Godly_ sense of imagination, downright uncanny." He reached out a hand and put it heavily on Crawley's shoulder, his red eyes intent on the face of his snake, his creepy-crawly. _His Crawley_. "Get ready, my darling, for the biggest creative display of your life."

* * *

In the tranquil silence of the wilderness, the smell of hot bread wafted – quite unexpectedly – off a row of stones.

A few feet away, where the smell was clearly reaching – where it had clearly been reaching for a solid _ten minutes_ now – sat Jesus Christ, who didn't so much as turn his head towards it.

He just _sat_ there, head facing the opposite way and eyes closed, lost in his thoughts. In his memories of Heaven, perhaps.

Crawley was feeling rather put out by this. Here he'd gone through all the trouble of pulling a demonic miracle to make the stones smell like bread and not even a _reaction_? He would have accepted a nod of acknowledgement at this point. Or a slight nostril twitch. The demon didn't like being ignored.

" _Hi_ ," he said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Jesus opened his eyes and turned his head, looking – not unkindly – at the red-haired, black-draped figure of Crawley as if he were silently asking the demon what he wanted, what he was doing here, and at the same time informing him matter of factly that he already knew the answer to both unspoken questions.

Definitely the son of God, then. No doubt about it. You learned to recognise the look – that look that said it knew something that you didn't.

Which, of course, he _did_ , obviously. But _still_.

Crawley knew how strong a motivator hunger could be. Long ago, he'd seen Esau trade his birthright for a measly bowl of lentil stew. People did stupid things when they were hungry.

Quirking a single eyebrow, he caused the appearance of the stones to fluctuate between their true inedible shape and that of hot loaves.

 _Hint, hint_.

Everyone knew the real trick to tempting was in the _eyes_ after all – smells were all well and good to start things off, but nothing tempted quite like _sight_.

That was all it took in Eden, wasn't it?

Look _at the pretty apple, Eve. Go on, take one._ Looks _good, doesn't it? S'just an apple._

The demon was also entirely aware that Jesus had not eaten for forty days.

"It is written, 'Man must not live on bread alone'."

" _Well_ ," wheedled Crawley with a rare, cool blink of his snaky amber eyes, "I mean, that's all well and good for the strong, isn't it?" He sniffed, shifting and rolling back his shoulders. "Freedom from sin, freedom from temptation – all worth something when you've started out from the highest possible position, when you're _already_ spiritually strong, isn't it? How much is that freedom worth to a starving farmer in some pathetic hovel, or a homeless child on the streets? How d'you think Heavenly bread compares in their minds to real bread – loaves they can hold in their hands and stuff in their mouths? You think they can recognise you and care about following you when all they can think about is the gnawing of their own stomach?" Reaching out a hand, Crawley gestured at the stones, giving them that wavering appearance of bread again. "Go on, do it now. Get rid of your hunger, then start on theirs. It's better that way."

Christ's beautifully compassionate dark eyes fixed on Crowley's own starlight-coloured ones with the firmest, yet gentlest of stares. And he had the feeling that, despite the refusal, Jesus really felt far sorrier for the hungry and the poor than _he_ – a demon who cared when it wasn't supposed to be in his nature – ever could. "Obedience isn't something that can be bought with a mouthful of bread, my friend. Neither is loyalty, or worship. It doesn't work like that."

For a moment, Crawley could not speak. The world was inexplicably a different place. It was turned around on its axis; a barren desert devoid of life was suddenly brilliantly exquisite in the warmth and light of the day. For this moment, Crawley nearly forgot who he was and why he was there, why it was so damned important to tempt Christ in the first place.

"What is your name?" The question was not posed in Aramaic.

Crawley didn't answer it; he looked away, then glanced back at Christ accusingly. "What is to become of the millions of people who _don't_ have the strength to forego earthly bread?"

Their gazes locked again, one endlessly kind and one bitterly, relentlessly questioning.

They were not at war, these interwound stares; they were at an impasse.

Leaning in, and then pulling away, the world around Crawley shifted – this time at his will – and they were up high, way up high. This wasn't the view from Heaven but it felt close enough, this lofty, craggy mountain they teetered at the edge of.

The view below shifted, shapes twisting and untwisting and reforming, a living kaleidoscope (though, naturally, kaleidoscopes had not been invented yet).

It was, sprawled out before them, all the kingdoms of the world.

Jesus looked at the array beneath his feet, twining in an earthly dance, the landscape twisting and untwisting itself. There were jewels and wonder and golden glory, raw and radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat.

And Crawley? He paced around him proudly, in broad, deliberate circles, making sure he was _seeing_ – not merely looking, but _seeing_.

"All of this," he breathed, "Satan will give it to you – just worship him. You only have to do it once. One small act, and it's all yours." Aligning his mouth next to Jesus's ear, he whispered, "Power, glory..."

Turning, their faces momentarily so close their noses nearly touched, Jesus looked yet again into the demon's golden eyes. " _What is your name_?"

"Take a look at this." Crawley motioned with his chin, back down into the depths of shapes swirling below the mountain.

All the beauty melted away – in its place were the ugliest corners of the world, where the sick and the starving and the cold and the desolate were. This array of sorrow was the complete picture of humanity's tears, enough to fill the oceans many times over.

"How can you _ignore_ that?" snapped the demon. "If it were yours, you could change it, couldn't you? But you're too bloody prideful to–"

There it was again – that look, that soft, sorrier-than-you-could-ever-be expression. It baffled him. He could see the shape of it, but he could not understand it, though he felt it all around him in the Son of God's presence. He could imagine, if he weren't a demon, how it could fill his heart, how it could surpass everything else.

It was bloody frustrating.

"Everything has it's time," Jesus told him softly. "It's not time for me to do anything about that – should I take it upon myself to take what does not yet belong to me?"

Crawley sniffed. "Worked for Satan, didn't it?"

"Did it?"

"Forget Satan for a moment. What if... What if... What if you could be the rightful king humanity desperately needs _now_? Not later, _now_. You don't have to die first, none of this as it's written nonsense. Let's cross it out. Do what Satan wants and we'll just make a little line across the page." The demon made a flourishing hand wave, miming holding a quill. "You don't have to go through all that pain – that humiliation. S'like skipping right ahead to the good part."

There was a time to speak, and a time to remain silent. Jesus knew which it was – he did not answer.

* * *

By this point, Crawley was exasperated. He swept himself and Jesus away, and they were standing, suddenly, upon the pinnacle of the temple.

"I don't know why I'm still talking to you," Crawley hissed. "You're just a carpenter from Galilee with limited travel opportunities."

Jesus raised his brow slightly – not, Crawley thought, taken in.

"Go on then," he pressed, doggedly, " _jump_. It's written, isn't it?" He smacked his lips together, then proceeded to quote, rather mockingly, " _He will command his angels concerning You – on their hands they will bear You up – so that you will not strike your foot against a stone._ "

"On the other hand," said Jesus, softly, his tranquil face turned to the wind, "it is written, you shall not put the Lord your God to the test."

Crawley shook his head. "You can't expect people to put faith in you if you refuse to appear as a supernatural being – what's all the hush, hush _for_? Religion is supposed to be miraculous, that's the whole bloody _point_." He sighed, heavily. "How can somebody as obviously bright as you – somebody so _clever_ – be so stupid?" Hurriedly taking in a sharp breath, the demon continued his rant. "People _need_ an undisputed miracle, and that's all there is to it."

"Many people have seen miracles," Jesus reminded him, "not many have acted upon them. Did seeing the Red Sea split apart change the outcome of–"

"Yes, yes." Crawley waved that off. "All the same." His eyes seemed almost to _twinkle_ , one corner of his mouth curling into a beguiling half-smile. "How about it, Carpenter? We could do it together." The demon edged a little further out. "You jump, I jump, Jesus."

"No."

"Worried the Almighty won't actually dispatch any angels?" he teased, merciless. "God always did have a sense of humour. Perhaps the Almighty is going to let you go _splat_ right outside the temple." The smile dimmed slightly, more of a grimace now. "That would be funny. Not as funny as millions of former angels making a freestyle dive into a boiling pool of sulphur – that one's hard to top. But still, _funny_ , amirite?"

Jesus was not amused.

"Right, fine. I get it. _Not_ so funny? The whole splat thing? Well, don't worry, I'll be there, you know, to make sure that doesn't actually happen." His mouth twisted, thoughtfully. "D'you know what? I think that way we _both_ win. Temptation accomplished and mankind gets their miracle. Almost like we'd have an...well, almost an _arrangement_ of sorts. You and me."

Jesus took a step closer to him. "If no angels arrive, yet you are there to save me before my body hits the ground... Does that still make you a demon? How do I know God didn't use you for this very purpose? Would _you_ be the commanding angel, holding my feet above the stones?"

Crawley gnashed his teeth.

"I ask you again, _what is your name_?"

"For Satan's sake, what bloody damnable difference does it make what my name is?"

But it was the third time he'd been asked, since this all started, and Crawley was feeling strangely uncomfortable about that, though he couldn't put his finger on _why_.

Had the air above the temple always been this bloody _cold_? He could feel the wind up here blowing back his head-covering, pulling at his curls.

Supposing... Supposing he wanted to answer – just for kicks – if he _wanted_ to... Just to shut the carpenter up...

Crawley was disturbed by his inability. Could he really say, "I'm Crawley, Satan's pet snake, serpent of Eden – Mr. Get-up-there-and-make-some-trouble"? Or was there _another_ name, buried deep in his past, a name that was no longer his own that he should...

 _No_.

Without a word, just another one of his ineffably gentle stares, Jesus seemed to be telling him that he understood this dilemma, that he _knew_. He knew how much the Fall hurt.

And Crawley could _see_ it, as he had once felt it.

It was like having an out-of-body experience in the past. There was a red-haired angel, falling. Falling and falling and falling. _Endlessly_ falling.

_This angel was not Crawley. Not quite. But it was somebody Crawley had once been. Somebody long dead._

_And this – what he was seeing as if from another pair of eyes – was that angel's death._

_There was nothing for him to grab onto, no stars that could be grasped for footholds, no nebula sprawling out like a net to catch him. Tears, inconsolable, burned in his eyes, bright and – after their transparency wore off –_ golden _as they slipped from the corners and ran down his face. They fell with him, like falling stars shining brightly all around him as he flailed wildly._

 _Given time, his mind would brick over this to an extent, turning the memory, when he allowed himself to think of it, into a mere_ saunter _._ _Just a little jump. Over in a moment, like ripping off a bandage. Easy. Nothing so bad._

_But that wasn't the truth._

_It was_ Crawley's _truth, perhaps, a truth invented so he could get on with things, but not_ the _truth. Despite what people say, there is a tremendous difference in one being's reality verses_ actual _reality._

 _And what actually happened is it_ hurt _. Outside and inside, it_ hurt _._

_There were salty burn-marks on his face, the colour of golden dust, already searing him long before he reached the sulphur. The tears did that. They were company and punisher, lovers and condemners, friend and enemy, all at once._

_The first water to fall from the eyes of man followed the rain over Eden, it followed the temptation of the apple, it followed human failure, but where had the tears of angels – the tears that tormented the red-haired angel – come from?_

_From the rebellion. The first mistake._

_The Heart of Heaven torn apart, shattered like a mirror in millions of shining pieces. Pieces which, one day, would be called shooting stars._

_The red-haired angel felt every moment of it. Not just the burn, but the change in his heart, the dimming and cracking and finally the breaking of his halo._

_Angelic grace isn't something that can be kept against God's will._

_It can be removed. It can be ripped away._

_And it was._

_And it is in that forsaken moment that the one suffering the loss realises, "I didn't want_ this _– I didn't mean_ this _," but it is too late. It's the most painful moment they will ever know._

_The red-haired angel had never known how much of his bravado, his self-esteem, was held up by Heaven's love._

_Not until it was removed from him entirely._

_Why?_ _Why go on existing after something like that?_

_You can't – at least not in the same way._

_The angel who would be Crawley couldn't._

_The stars – seen through his tears – were a foothold after all. Of a sort. He looked up at them, unable to turn his head or close his eyes, holding on against the dizzying pain as he sank down into the fire._

_The angel was like an amputee, but what he had lost was so, so much worse than any mere_ limb _._

Crawley was jolted out of this state of remembering through other eyes by a firm touch as Jesus gripped his thin shoulders and pulled him back from the edge of the temple. "Careful, or you'll fall again."

"Is that a _joke_?" the demon snarled, ripping himself out of Jesus's grasp. "Is _that_ what Heavenly humour is now?" He was angry. Angrier than he'd been in a long time. "Do you even realise what you've done? The foolish mistake you've made? When you're suffering, when they're calling you a blasphemer, remember you could have prevented it – and the centuries of spiritual darkness to follow your death – with one little jump. If you weren't so bloody stubborn. D'you call that _love_? Men are weak. Even _being_ one you don't _get_ it. They can't love the way you do. Most of them will never work out _how_. You think too highly of them, giving them free will, making them rebellious slaves by nature. If you respected them a bit _less_..." He groaned. "Why _do_ it? Why make people like this? It's an impossible burden. A gift they can only squander. Why give them a choice only to..."

The ensuing silence was heavy. Crawley almost dared to hope the useless carpenter was going to say something worthwhile. Or maybe he would rebuke him. And maybe Crawley _deserved_ it, for thinking of Jesus as a 'useless carpenter' when he _knew_ he was anything but.

"Three times you have refused to tell me your name, but I tell you the truth – when we meet again, you will not bear the name you are called by today." He reached out a hand, gently pressing his warm fingers to the snake-shaped mark on the side of Crawley's face.

Crawley, inexplicably, did not flinch, did not pull away before Jesus removed his hand.

There was a pause as long as two heartbeats.

Resolutely, Jesus added, "Away from me now, for you have finished all your tempting."

Crawley scoffed, but half-heartedly. "Until another convenient time."

The stillness around them broke then. Flashes of light seemed to be encircling Jesus. Angels. At their most beautiful and kind. Angels sent from Heaven to attend to Jesus – old friends of his, who could console him now, and praise him for his goodness in refusing all those nasty temptations.

Crawley wouldn't have that. Not ever. What Jesus was experiencing now, Crawley was forever barred from. Satan wouldn't send demons to reassure him that there would always be a next time, that he'd done his best.

And he wouldn't want him to. Demons didn't _do_ comforting. Not sincerely.

* * *

There seemed to be a song in the air, outside the window of the inn Crawley was sleeping at.

Lifting the heavy wooden latch, he leaned his groggy head out the window and looked up.

It was night and there was a meteor shower, raining stars the colour of the demon's eyes. And he watched them, unabashed, until they were done falling, remembering and not remembering, thinking of Jesus and his infinite gentleness and compassion.

"Bloody fool," he murmured, meaning exactly the opposite, and pulled the window closed, trapping himself in darkness of his own making.

* * *

_"When the stars threw down their spears_

_And water'd Heaven with tears:_

_Did He smile his work to see?_

_Did He who made the Lamb make thee?"_

– William Blake


End file.
